


Learn To Fly

by nancy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Drug Use, Episode: s02e14 Born Under a Bad Sign, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, My First Work in This Fandom, POV Alternating, POV First Person, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 16:08:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/967936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nancy/pseuds/nancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post episode Born Under A Bad Sign-<br/>This is just a post-ep PWP where i saw the rare chance to write drugfic with Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Learn To Fly

**Author's Note:**

> Born Under A Bad Sign is my favorite ep. Well, it was way back when I wrote this, my very first SPN slash. I have such ugly baby love for this trashy little story. It was the first fic I wrote after an 8 year hiatus from fandom and slash writing, and boy did I miss it! I wrote it for Zen, of course. 
> 
> Song title and lyrics borrowed without permission from the Foo Fighters.

~-~

He puts the car on the road and all of the rage and self-loathing I feel comes out on him, like always. I don't know any other way to deal with what I did to him than to make it his fault. So I prod and tear at him, at his manhood, make him feel weak for not being able to face up to the idea of having to kill me. He was right this time, yes, and he has to push it back in my face that he managed to save me, again; like that's proof positive that he can keep on doing it forever.

"If it's the last thing I do." He tells me, all bright eyes and big brother bravado.

It must be the pills he took before we left Bobby's, just starting to kick in. I beat the living shit out of him, _really_ almost killed him, no more than an hour ago, and all he can say is, "Dude, you full-on had a girl inside you for like a whole week. That's pretty naughty."

On the straight road back to the highway he only takes it up to 40mph and at first I think it's because we're still talking a little and he's looking at me more than the road, but then even in the silence that follows he doesn't go any faster. The center line starts to drift back and forth across the middle of the hood and I'm just about to say something when he slows down, starts to ease her over onto the shoulder.

"I never should have got behind the wheel. You drive, okay?"

"Yeah, of course."

We bump shoulders when we switch in front of the car, his steps crooked and stumbling around the corner. He falls into the passenger seat hard, the groan of pain that comes out of him more than enough to tell me that yes, he is way too messed up to drive.

"Dean. Don't go to sleep, though, okay?"

"What? Why not? Sam I've been awake for-- I don't know how many days anymore."

"I know, I just... Can I stop and get coffee?"

"No! We are supposed to be getting the hell out of Dodge. Didn't you hear Bobby?"

"Fine."

I put the pedal to the floor and watch it climb slowly to 100, waiting for him to say something. Finally, he sighs softly and says, "Okay, stop for coffee."

I ease it back down to 75 and two miles down the road there's a gas station. I realize he is totally zonked on the vicodin when he doesn't ask for any food when I'm getting out of the car. I get him two candy bars and a black coffee with sugar.

~-~

Sam hustles back to car carrying two tall paper cups and chocolate. He sloshes hot coffee on his hand but doesn't slow down. Good- I'm glad he understood the "we're in a hurry" part, 'cause it feels like I've been sitting here waiting for him forever, but maybe it's only been a minute. I guess three was one too many, I should have only taken two of Jo's painkillers. Oh well, Sam can drive for a few hours, and then we can hole up in a room somewhere and I can sleep it off. I should be getting out the map and picking a direction but I really don't care. I don't care at all which way we go, where we stop or if we just drive all night. I'm so exhausted, and so grateful to have him back I don't care about anything else. So damn grateful, thankful, I wish I could tell him how happy I am right now, how the relief of having him back in one piece is a better high than the vicodin, but he's pissed off, mad at himself, mad at me, probably a lot of left over rage from the bitch that was crawling around inside him. I wonder how much he remembers, if it's all coming back to him now.

He's handing me my coffee and tossing the candy bars in my lap, slams his door too hard and doesn't say a word. Doesn't peel out of the gas station like I know he wants to though, he waits until we're a mile down the road to put the pedal down. Good boy, Sam. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel and his jaw's going full force, little muscles jumping and popping right under the skin. Driving will help. When it's rage leftover from a hunt and there's nothing to fight anymore, the only thing that helps is being able to put the pedal down and open her up, let the needle climb all the way to the right and just fly, let the car eat up a couple hundred miles of blacktop.

"Hey."

We both say it at the same time, and then we both wait for the other one to talk. Finally, he does, after the silence has stretched too long.

"Listen, this is gonna sound lame, but, Dean- I really don't remember much after getting to Bobby's, if I said, anything... to you. I don't know what-all I did to you, I mean, besides shooting you in the arm."

"It wasn't you Sam!" He feels shitty for hurting me and I wish my face wasn't technicolor so I didn't have to see that look of pain in his eyes every time he tries to look at me. There's more, it takes a minute to put it together, my brain is working in super-slow motion. He's ashamed that he doesn't remember, thinks it means he's weak because he wasn't fighting it hard enough, or something like that.

"Demon bitch probably put some extra mojo on you to make sure you stayed asleep, bet it figured that was the only safe way to use you to attack me, right?" It makes sense, I don't know why he's looking at me like that. "What? Hey, watch the road!"

"Dean, don't! Don't do that. I don't need you to make excuses for me."

"I'm not! I'm bein' serious. Look, you gotta get over it. It happened, it was fucked up, yes, when are our lives not? I got your back, Bobby gave us these trinkets to make sure it doesn't happen again, so we're good. Move forward."

He opens his mouth, makes some kind of "I'm so irritated with you I can't even talk yet" kind of noise and shuts it again. Silence. His eyes are fixed on the road, and his lips and eyebrows are drawn tight; bitchy face.

Finally, when I think he's just going to sit there and marinate for a couple of hours and I'm just starting to drift off he blurts out, "What were you gonna say?" too loud. His eyes flick over at me when I jump, go soft, that quick, eyes-only apology that is the only kind that's acceptable between us. If you have to say I'm sorry either it's bullshit or it's gone too far for words to do much good.

"Aw hell, Sammy, I don't remember. I'm a little goofed up right now... Look, if you wanna talk, I'm right over here, I'm awake, okay?" I take a slug of my coffee and tear open a candy bar to prove it.

Even in the dark, I can see his shoulders slump, his whole body shifts down a little in the seat when he finally lets go of it. His smile is small, only half there but it's good enough.

"Dean, how do you do this? How do you just keep on doing this?"

"Because I am the best. Big brother. Ever."

"True."

"Damn right."

He turns his head and it's his neon smile that he flashes at me, eyes and all, and it feels like I swallow it, like all that brightness goes right in my open mouth down my throat to my chest, where it spreads out, warm and tingly.

"Man, you look fucked-up. Exactly how many of those painkillers did you take?"

"Enough. It's okay, Sam. I'm fine, don't worry," I bump his arm affectionately, "Come on, driver picks the music. Play somethin'." Permission to pick music is as much love as I can possibly give, and it works. The crease of worry-frown disappears from his forehead and his face lights up like Christmas again, 'cept Sammy never smiled like that on Christmas, but he's happy, so I’ve done good. He pops the Metallica tape out and flips the radio dial slowly, stopping on an oldies station that's the first signal to come in clear and strong. It's Fontella Bass, singing "Rescue Me" and he leaves it, keeps right on smiling that huge, beautiful smile, eyes straight ahead on the road, long fingers tapping on the steering wheel.

I'm wide awake now, but I'm so stoned out of my mind I can't move. It takes me like five minutes to convince my hand to lift the coffee cup up to my mouth. I'm real proud of myself when I don't spill. I watch the white center line sliding endlessly under the car, now solid, now broken. I can feel it in my gut, the pull of the road sliding under us. There are so many things I like about the road... it never runs out. It feels like my eyes are stuck there on the white line and it makes me think of one of Sam's college phrases, stream of consciousness. This is where my consciousness streams, on the center line. This is where I belong, where I am able to be the most accurate version of myself. Which puts more college words in my head, point of divergence, I know that one, I read all about it in a book about quantum physics I picked up back right after he left for Stanford. I was looking into all that new age-y crap, stuck on the idea of another version of reality, where Sam made a different choice. The endless streaming of the white line is starting to make me dizzy, I feel like I'm gonna fall off. I give my head a shake and drag my eyes up off the road to stare at Sam sitting next to me instead.

He's wearing one of the clean shirts I keep at Bobby's. Seeing him in my shirt makes me remember how he always used to wear my clothes on hunts with Dad. Back then I thought it was pure selfishness, him not wanting to mess up his own clothes, which were always better than mine, because he cared more about that stuff than I did. But now, looking at him in that old navy blue sweatshirt I think I can remember him putting it on this time in Montana, or it was one just like it. We were hunting a tengu, I remember he was scared, he was only maybe 13 or 14, and he got braver once he was all layered up in my clothes, looking like a mini-me stomping around the hotel room waiting impatiently for me and Dad to do weapons check and load-out. We tracked that thing three days and nights in the woods and Sam never took off that blue sweatshirt.

The song ends and a Beatles tune comes on and Sam doesn't change the station, even though neither one of us likes the Beatles. He looks okay, calm, like he's finally starting to relax. I think about how any other time I'd be yelling at him about the radio and how I really am an asshole most of the time.

"It's a good thing you put up with me." I ramble out loud, like he's been following along with me in my head the whole time.

He just looks at me, confused, little cat smile perking the corners of his mouth up. "Yeah, I guess it is."

We cross the border into Wyoming and stop at a Sinclair station with a big inflatable dinosaur in the parking lot. Sam takes a long time with the map, eyebrows pulled tight over his mag light, then his laptop, whipped out and tapped at mercilessly for about a minute, then tossed gently to the backseat.

"It's getting late, we should stop for the night pretty soon, but I want to get off the interstate. We can go a little farther and take Rt 111 north to Alladdin."

"Is there going to be a cursed lamp?" I laugh, not really 'cause it's funny but just because I'm happy.

"I hope not. But there's more than one motel to chose from, which is safer, anyway."

"Okay, sounds awesome."

"We can make it in about two more hours if we haul ass."

His grin is wide over his flashlight. I must be totally messed up, because what comes out of my mouth is, "I should let you drive more often."

The grin explodes, his face is gonna crack. Sam clicks the flashlight off and starts the car.

"Dean, I like you like this."

He peels back out onto the safety of the dark highway and it feels like we're just floating down the road.

"God, I love this car so much."

"Yeah, I know. More than me?"

And honest-to-God he sounds serious. Aw Sammy.

"Don't be fuckin' stupid."

~-~

Now that's got to be the pills talking. It's always been a close call. My mind flashes back to years of sitting on porches and fences and asphalt, trying to do homework and watch Dean work on the car at the same time. Dean, shirtless, leaning under the hood and moving slow and easy, talking to her under his breath. I think I was more jealous of the Impala than the girls. The girls were expected, required, meaningless, the car was the only thing he loved at 18, besides me. As miserable as adolescence was, right now I wish I could go back to those days, when he still made all my decisions for me, when my faith in him was absolute and untested.

I decide to believe him, even if he is wasted, in fact, this is probably the best time to get truth out of him. I wonder if he even knows what I love best in the world, after him, then I realize that I'm not sure myself, what would it be? I have to laugh, because I can't think of anything. Talk about a minimalist existence.

"What's funny?"

"Nothing, really. What do you think I love the most, after you?"

"I don't know, books? Clean sheets and fluffy towels?"

Maybe he knows me better than I thought. But he's wrong, though, I don't love those things, not like Dean loves the Impala.

"Yeah, maybe. Not really." I laugh a little, shake my head, try to explain what I'm getting at without him giving me 'chick-flick' shit.

"Books are important, necessary, wonderful, even, but I go without them all the time. Clean sheets and towels are awesome, but if I had them all the time I probably wouldn't even notice them, right?"

"So what is it, then, what couldn't you live without, besides me?"

"I dunno. I don't think there is anything."

Dean's teeth are bright in the dark, his grin a shadow behind the white. He's sprawled out against the door, turned half sideways to look at me, one leg up on the seat. I can't see his eyes, but I know they're crinkled up in approval.

"Well, that's okay, Sammy, it's what it is, a warrior's life, right?"

I can't believe how much easier he is to talk to on drugs, it's like all the wise-ass and the defensive, passive-aggressive muscles in his brain are taking a nap. He wants me to confirm it, say he's right, so I do.

"Yeah, you're right. It's okay." The funny thing is, I think I believe him.

Or maybe I'm just willing to grasp at any notion of normalcy, and this life, it is what's normal for us. Maybe it feels okay to acknowledge that. I'm more shook up than I want to admit, having that thing inside me, controlling me, was awful in ways that make me sure I'm going to be reliving it many times in my dreams. The creepy part is that it sort of feels like I already have dreamed it, some kind of weird deja vu that won't stop screwing with my head.

"Dean? Okay, weird question, but, has anything like this ever happened before, like maybe when I was little?"

He looks at me like I'm totally out of my mind and all of the sudden he's re-thinking letting me sit behind the wheel of his car. "Sammy. I 'fessed up to dropping you on your head. I 'fessed up to the time I fed you nothing but green beans for three days to see if you'd turn green. Why the hell would I keep something like that from you? No. You never got possessed by a demon."

"Okay, right, well, I didn't really think so. Just, don't pay any attention to me, I'm good now, okay?"

"Yeah, okay, paranoia boy, I won't worry about you at all." He huffs at me, like I just asked him to do the craziest, most impossible thing in the world. Makes me feel good, and I smile at him and shrug my shoulders, making a real effort to shrug the weirdness off and just be glad we're here on the road and everything's okay between us.

~-~

I twist in the passenger seat, his side, and stretch my leg out until my knee bumps into his leg, leave it pressed there for contact. It's an immediate need, a reaction I refuse to think about before I give in to it. He's scared. He's really wigging out and just on the verge of panic, deep down on the inside panic like he does, and I want to be there for him, it's just that. Okay, a little more, knowing how bad he's freaked freaks me a little, there's a little niggling worry of bad things squirming around in my stomach, in spite of how sloppy-stoned I am.

His right hand slides off his leg and onto my knee, fingers curling around the folds of denim. It's dead-quiet in the car as a song ends on the radio and I can see how tense his shoulder is, his hand just barely grasping, waiting for me to bark something mean at him, call him a girl, but I don't. I sit still as a statue and watch him while he drives, and after a while his shoulders drop and his palm goes flat on the side of my knee and his fingers fit loosely between the folds in the cloth. The radio station fades out and the silence is softened by the fuzz of static.

"How much farther?" I have to ask because I haven't been paying any attention to the mile markers.

"Only 10 more miles. Almost there."

"Good, I'm sick of sitting here, it's boring."

Sam laughs, just a little, fingers squeeze the top of my leg, right above my knee, hand so big he can wrap it almost all the way around my leg. "You are so not in any condition to be doing jack-shit right now."

Yeah, well, he's got a point there. I'm pretty trashed, but not as bad as if I'd drunk a bunch of beers to go with it, just floaty and sleepy and damn grateful to be relaxed. I seriously don't remember the last time my body was this relaxed, not tense anywhere, not hurting or aching or sore, anywhere, just good.

"Naw, just feelin' good." I do a big cat-stretch, arch and pop my back and settle down again, the length of my calf pushed out against his thigh. My head's against the window and I tilt it all the way back, stare straight up into the black Wyoming sky, the glass cold against my cheek. I feel like the impala is a tiny speck on a speck of ribbon highway, shrinking under the hugeness of the universe.

"You know, when you were gone... that really sucked."

I'm trying to tell him something really huge, a realization I had while I was driving all night to get to him in Twin Lakes. Well, not a realization, just that I felt it, so bad, how we're just wasting whatever time we have left. Our luck could run out on anything, on any given day, and it could be all over and it won't have mattered a single splinter one way or another whether we did or didn't do whatever the fuck we wanted.

He waits a few seconds to see if I'm gonna say more, eyebrows up, little lip-quirk of encouragement, but I feel like I could say every single word in the English language and still not have enough to fix it all down into simple sentences for him. How do you talk about something that's bigger than you are?

"Yeah? 'Mm sorry, bro." Puppy dog eyes check on me twice, then one more time when I still can't figure out how to explain it to him.

I let out a big sigh, hold my hands up in front of me, meaning, "I got nothin'". I have to give up on it, because I just can't find the words, it's too much for my brain to tackle right now. So I start a new conversation, tell him something else that's also important.

"It's okay, Sam. I get scared, too."

"Yeah?"

"Hell yeah. It's good to be scared, proves you're still sane."

"Yeah, you gotta point there." Sam laughs, I watch his hair flop around on his forehead when he nods in agreement.

We roll into the sleeping town and under the brighter streetlights of their main drag Sam lifts his hand up off my leg and puts it back on the steering wheel. The spot where his hand was warm is cold now.

"You wanna wait here an' I'll get the room?" Sam's eyes move critically over my face, and I remember it's black and blue. Well, actually, it's probably red and purple. Tomorrow it'll be black and blue.

"Good idea."

"Okay, be right back."

It's cold in the car with the engine off, Sam's got the keys. It takes forever until he comes back, sliding back into the drivers seat to park the car.

"C'mon, it's okay, I'll come back out for the stuff."

I don't really think I'm hurt or fucked up too bad to help unload the car, but I don't argue. Sam trying to take care of me is always kinda funny and endearing, I don't mind it.

"One bed?"

"It's all they had, sorry."

"I don't mind if you don't- it's warmer."

"It's fine. Just don't punch me in your sleep, okay?"

"Deal." I flop down on the bed and Sam makes a face at my dirty clothes on the bedspread, but fuck him, I'm on top of the covers.

"You should take a shower. Clean up your face."

"I will, get up in just a minute, promise."

"Yeah, okay, I'm gonna go get the stuff outta the car. You want a soda?"

"Yeah. Two."

"Okay, be right back."

I call out to him when I hear the door slam for the last time, he made two trips and I wonder what-all he dragged in and how long he plans on stayin' here.

"Hey Sam!"

"Yeah. What?"

"Little help here?"

"Oh, hold on, okay? I'm layin' salt. Be right there."

The door is nudged gently and I step all the way back against the tub so he can open it and step in. It's a really small bathroom with both of us in it. "Whatcha need?"

"Shirt. Can't get it up over my head. Think I might just cut it."

Sam pulls the collar of my sweatshirt down to peer at the bandage over my shoulder. It's wet, and I don't like the look on Sam's face. "Yeah. I think that's our best option. I got it." Sam pulls his knife out of his back pocket and picks up the sleeve at my wrist, holding the fabric pulled away from my arm and slipping the point of the knife underneath. The material falls apart easily under the blade and he moves it slowly up the arm, grabbing the fabric and pulling it away from me as he goes.

"Thanks. I probably would've stuck myself."

"Yeah."

"You're gonna make me clean that again, aren't you?"

"Oh yeah."

"Come on, man, leave it alone, it's fine. Jo patched me up real good and I checked on it at Bobby's, it wasn't green or nothing."

"No way Dean."

"Great, what a buzz-kill."

He laughs sharply. "You know, the point of painkillers is to help with the pain, not to get you stoned.

"Yeah? That blows. Hey, can I have my soda?"

"Yeah, hold on, lemme finish getting this off." He runs the knife across the back of the sweatshirt and starts cutting his way down the seam on the other arm. It falls off my body and hangs around my arm as he slices through the fabric.

"Can I have whiskey too?"

"No. No whiskey with vicodin. Don't be such a baby." He reaches out to pull a thread from the shirt off my shoulder, it got stuck on the bandage, and I can see his hand is shaking.

"Why you shakin'? I don't want you dressing my bullet hole with those hands. Seriously, you still that freaked?"

"No. No, I'm not, I'm fine."

"Yeah?" My eyes search his, this close, right up against each other, I can see he's telling me the truth, he's better, he's settling down in there. But his hand's are shaking, and there's sweat on his upper lip. "Then what's this? I make you nervous, Sammy?" I smile at him, bat my eyes a couple times just for fun.

"Uh, Dean, can I just get this over with please? Wait here, sit down, I'll get your soda and the kit."

Sam comes back quick with the little metal army box with a red cross on it in chipped paint. He gives me my can of soda and washes his hands, using the disinfectant stuff in the kit, not the crap wrapped in paper on the sink.

Sam pulls the bandage off gingerly and the look on his face when he sees the damage hurts worse than the hole in my arm.

"Hey, it's okay."

"Oh my God, Dean, I am so sorry."

"Sam! It's alright. It's gonna be okay. I'm fine, just clean it up."

"Yeah, right." He gets right down to work and at least he's a lot faster than Jo was, digging the bullet out, and the bandage he puts on feels more comfortable when he's done. To be fair, Sam's had quite a bit more triage experience than Jo has.

"Thanks, Sammy. That feels better."

"Yeah, well, keep it clean. You gonna take a shower? If you are I need to find a plastic bag to cover this with."

"Nah, I think I'm just gonna wash up here at the sink, deal with the shower in the morning."

"That's a good idea. I'll let you do that." Sam's gathering up all the first aid supplies and putting them back in the kit. "You need any help?"

"No, thanks man, I got it."

"Okay, well, yell if you do."

Warm water feels good on my swollen face. I soak the dried blood off with the washcloth and clean the cuts with the anti-bac soap he left out for me. I soak the washcloth and let the hot water run down my neck and chest, and scrub up as best I can. Even moving my arm this much hurts some, and it bleeds a little through Sam's bandage.

When I go back out into the room Sam has pulled out clean socks, underwear and sweatpants and laid them on the bed for me.

"Thanks."

"Yeah, no problem. You don't want a t-shirt, do you? You could put on one of my hoodies that zip up though, keep you warm."

"Hmm," I have to wait a minute to talk because I'm putting the sweatpants on and all that reaching and bending is making my arm throb and my head spin. "Nah, I don't want to get blood on it, I'm okay."

"It's still bleeding? Lemme see? Shit. She didn't do a very good job sewing you up. Maybe I should take you to a hospital and have them re-do it."

"Fuck that, Sam. It's just a flesh wound, all muscle tissue, it was a lucky shot. It'll leave an ugly scar, yeah, but it's gonna heal fine, and I can tell Jo it's all her fault.

"You are so god-damn stubborn."

"No, look Sammy, I'm not trying to be a dick, I'm just exhausted, I’m drained and fried and I'm really not up to going to an emergency room and dealing with a whole bunch of people. I just wanna lie here and watch tv until I fall asleep. I'll put some towels under my arm so I don't bleed all over us. See, it's not even that bad, it only bleeds if I'm moving it around."

Sam looks at me and his eyes go all soft, he's making that ridiculous sympathetic-Sam face that's usually reserved for the innocent victims.

"Yeah, I understand. Me too. Get in bed."

Sam goes to the bathroom and comes back with the dry towel. He folds and rolls it neatly and waits for me to get settled under the covers, then he tucks the towel in around my shoulder. I wince at the slight pressure and he mumbles,

"Sorry, sorry."

It's starting to hurt again and I decide that Sam is the Best Little Brother Ever when he comes back with a glass of water and the pill bottle from the pocket of my coat.

"Here, get a good night's sleep."

"I really like that plan. Thank you, Sammy."

I take two more vicodin and give him back the bottle and the empty glass.

"Don't thank me."

His voice has an edge to it I don't like. "Hey! We're not back to guilt again, are we?"

"C'mon, Dean, how am I supposed to feel?"

"Thankful, grateful, glad to be alive. That's how I feel."

~-~

Wow, I can't believe he just said that. I smile at him to show I'm giving in, I'll try not to feel like shit about it. Won't be easy, but I'll try. I'm not tired, but there's nothing else to do, really, so I change into sweatpants and get into bed. I'm extra careful lying down, try not to jostle the bed with my weight.

"Here, you want this?" He's offering me the remote for the TV, which is almost as rare as permission to drive. I may have to check and see if there's a re-fill on that 'script.

"What do you want to watch?" I ask him anyways, flipping through the channels. The hotel has a giant satellite dish in the parking lot, so there's something like four hundred channels to choose from.

"Don't care, whatever."

It looks like he's still hurting, his face is tense and so are the muscles in his neck. "How long does it take for those things to kick in?" I ask him, flipping channels aimlessly.

" 'Bout twenty minutes. Feels better just to be lying down, though. I'm like, so exhausted I'm past tired. I feel all wide awake and hyper, like you get."

"Yeah, that sucks. Just try and breathe slow, take long, deep breaths, let your body relax. I'd offer you a back rub but I think it would hurt too much, moving your shoulder around."

"Yeah. But I'll take a rain check." He sighs, sounding so wistful it makes me smile. Dean loves back rubs, a good back rub is worth almost as much as good food or good sex.

"Okay, you got it. I owe you one."

I stop flipping channels on the History channel, it's something about ancient Rome, and it looks boring enough to put him to sleep, but war-centric enough that he won't complain about it. Dean sighs again, and he sounds happier this time, I think the pills are starting to work. He shifts around, getting comfortable, pulls the covers up to his middle. I'm on the right side of the bed, away from his shoulder, which is good because I don't want to roll into it during the night. His hand bumps my arm and I assume he's still trying to get comfortable, so I move over a little to give him more room, but when I move away he grabs my arm and pulls on it, so I scoot back. His hand bumps mine, twists around to try and catch my fingers, his palm turning up underneath my hand. At first I try to pull away, it takes me a few seconds to get the clue that he's trying to hold my hand. As soon as I do I let him interlace our fingers and squeeze back, not sure what's going on.

"Dean, you okay? It hurts real bad?"

"No, I'm okay. Just... lonely."

That's pretty weird, but okay. He's stoned, he's hurting, it's cool, I certainly don't mind or anything. I wonder if this is what was going on with us in the car, earlier.

"Oh. Yeah. Well, yeah, me too."

"You know, I never mind sharing a bed with you. I always sleep better when you're right there."

"Yeah? I do, too." I don't mention that I always wake up in the middle of the night with a hard-on, my body hyper-aware that he's right there next to me, close enough to reach out and touch. Just thinking it is enough to make me react, and I start to panic, but then something moves in Dean's eyes and he lets go of my hand. Slowly, he lifts his hand up and lays his fingers across my face, sliding softly down my cheek. His palm curls around my jaw, stays there, holding me. Oh. Oh my god.

"Hey, it's okay, but you're kinda, um, stoned." My voice sounds a little rough, it's hard to get the words out with his hand stroking my cheek. I'm really surprised that he would want anything from me, even if it is only skin comfort.

"Am I bothering you?" Dean whispers, his eyes searching mine, an expression that's a mixture of intensity and uncertainty on his face that I've never seen before. It's incredibly appealing. I know I'm going to give in to him, give him anything he wants. I couldn't possibly do anything else.

"No, no. Not at all." I whisper back, shaking my head and turning my face into his hand.

"Okay, so don't give me a hard time about it. I just," He sighs, and I think he's going to leave it at that, but then he admits, "need to feel you close. C'mere, Sam."

"Okay." I move carefully, sliding over to close the space between us. His hand moves off my face to slide around the back of my neck and then his arm wraps around my shoulders, hugging me close against his side. He's warm and solid and I wrap my arm around his middle and hug back, a little delirious from the almost-forgotten sensation of warm, naked skin pressed against mine. All I can think is how glad I am I didn't put a t-shirt on before I got in bed.

I feel him take a deep, shuddering breath, and his arm squeezes me even tighter, locking me against his side. I can feel the anxiety in his touch, think I can smell it on his skin.

"What? What's wrong?"

"I almost shot you. Back at the bar, with Jo, you don't even know how close I came... I almost did it. Fuck. I almost lost you." His hand moves over my back, pressing me close, comes up to the back of my neck and pushes my head down onto his shoulder, tucking me into a space that I remember vaguely from childhood. I slide down a little more so I can fit myself in and my feet hang off the bed. "And it's not the first time, feels like the hundredth time."

"It's okay, it's okay, I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

"Don't."

"Won't, I promise."

"God that feels good. Stay, stay there."

There's a part of me that's so tired of dealing with it all, I wish he had, I really do, but I don't tell him that. I just close my eyes and let my hand move over his skin, trying to comfort. It calms me down, to touch him, feel him alive and strong lying next to me.

"That's really nice." He sighs, and I can feel him relax under my hand. I touch all the bare skin available to me, slide my palm slowly over his chest, lightly around the bandage and down his arm, let my fingers trail slowly over sensitive skin, feel the veins at the inside of his elbow, the muscles that ripple over his ribs, the smooth, sharp rise of his hip bone at the waist of his sweatpants.

"Mm-" He makes a tiny little wanting noise when my hand slides across his middle, stroking the muscles on his stomach. He turns towards me, leaning in so that his forehead is pressed against mine. We inhale at the same time, he bends his head a fraction and our noses touch. We're so close to kissing, but we're not, there's just an inch of space left between our lips.

"So this is, um... considered incest, or what?"

His voice is quiet, calm, he sounds just vaguely curious, and that makes me smile crazily, shake my head no. "I don't think so. I think it's only incest if the parties involved are underage, or one of them is."

"Yuck."

"Yeah. This would be a little different. Doesn't mean it's a good idea or anything, but no, I don't think you could technically call it incest."

"Hmm, okay. I think we're going to call it, 'we're never going to talk about this so it doesn't matter'."

"Sounds great, let's go with that plan, I like that a lot."

Dean laughs a little, so close to my mouth I can feel it on my lips, he's still smiling when I kiss him. His hand goes right to the back of my head, plunging into my hair, and it makes me think of the few times I've been hurt bad, how his fingers stroking through my hair told me how badly he wanted to make it better. I try to tell him the same thing with my mouth, kissing him gently, taking my time.

I've thought about kissing him a hundred thousand times, at least, so the fact that we're really doing it is difficult for my brain to accept. I'm not entirely sure any of this is real until Dean mumbles, "Oh shit, Sammy," over my lips and it's so real, definitely us really doing this right here right now, and he's just as scared as I am.

"You think this is," My mouth keeps reaching for his, even while I'm trying to talk, stealing kisses between words because I don't know which one is going to be the last and I want as many as I can get. "This is a bad idea?"

"Oh hell yeah. C'mon, in the history of us making stupid moves? This is epic."

"Yeah, probably." His mouth is so soft, as wonderful to kiss as I thought it would be. "You think we should stop?"

"Hell no. Not stopping."

We're quiet for awhile, just kissing slow and easy. His mouth already feels familiar. Dean mumbles, tongue darting out to lick playfully at the corner of my mouth, "You. Are. A really good kisser."

It's not the first time I've been told that, but coming from him it's a serious compliment.

"Thanks, so are you."

"Of course I am."

~-~

"I've been wanting to do this for... a really long time, ya'know?"

Yeah, of course I know, I'm not stupid. It doesn't surprise me that he wants to keep on talking while we're making out, he probably rambles his head off all the way through sex. That makes the evil part of my brain wonder what it would take to shut him up, actually leave him speechless, and speculating on that makes me groan and grind my hips into the bed.

"Yeah, Sam, I know." My mouth goes on the attack and for a couple minutes he just melts, lets me just kiss the hell out of him with my good arm wrapped around him tight, my elbow crooked at the back of his head to hold him against my mouth.

What I'm doing is so, so wrong, but Sam wants it, bad, and this one time, I'm not going to deny myself. Even though I'm the one who's high, I still feel like I'm taking advantage of him, because he's so unsure of himself, scared and mixed up and freaked out by everything that's happened, but he's not the only one. I need him so badly, need him to be okay, to be himself, and I don't know how, or how totally fucked up it is that I think so, but this helps. It's... reaffirming, or something. I can touch him and watch him react and know for sure that he's my Sam, right here with me. I can give him something good to feel, try to replace all the revulsion and the self-disgust I know he has inside himself right now.

My hand slides down his back, which goes on forever, all hard muscle and smooth skin. God he's gotten huge in the last year. He's been taller since he was sixteen, but my chest and arms have always been bigger. I think he's got me, now. My hand slips under the elastic waist of his pants and strokes over his ass. Sam moans into my mouth. Oh yeah, he likes that.

"You done it with a guy before, Sam?"

"Uh-uh. Been curious a couple times. Never got the chance. Have you? Oh, right. Sorry, sorry!"

Sam's kisses get frantic as his mouth tries to apologize for it's stupidity. Actually, I'm kinda glad he's blocked it to the point where he might have almost forgotten. Me hustling for money is up near the top of the long, long list of things we just don't talk about.

"But what about, since back then?"

"Maybe. Little. Why, you want references?" I nip at his jawbone, start chewing and sucking on his neck.

"Ha,no. I'm good."

"Yeah, it's all good, Sam." I'm telling him it's okay, I'm not mad about him bringing it up like that. Was a long time ago, doesn't matter. I did what I had to do and I'm not messed up about it. We needed to eat, Dad didn't always come home on time, especially as Sam got older. So I took care of us, any way I could, whether it was hustling pool or cards or sometimes it was my ass, but I kept us clothed and fed and if Sammy needed money for a field trip or a new backpack, he got it, it was that simple.

Sam goes a little crazy when I start using my teeth. His head is thrown back all the way, offering me the long white line of his neck, and his hips jerk and thrust restlessly under the covers, bumping into me hard. It feels great, to be making him go so outta control like this. He's making the best kinda noises, hands groping me all over, finally settling on my hips to press against me hard, grinding us together through our sweat pants.

"Biting's good." I agree, moving my teeth down to his collar bone for some serious gnawing action.

"Dean! Fuck, oh god, please don't stop. Feels so fucking good."

"Yeah. Not stopping."

"I thought about it a lot, what it would be like. Never thought it would actually happen though. Oh! Hold up a sec, please? I just gotta get this out, and I can't talk when you do that... Look, if you wanna kill me in the morning, I'm sorry, okay? And please don't. Just don't think--"

"Shut up, Sam." It's not like he's going to actually listen and stop talking, so I kiss him, try to make him understand with my lips pressed up against his that none of this is his fault. "Sam," I whisper, letting my lips brush over his cheek. "It's okay. Look, just cause I'm... It doesn't have to be all on you."

"Of course it does-" He interrupts, tries to argue back right away and I shut him up with my mouth again. That's very effective, and lots of fun. I think I could totally get used to that.

"Sam. I know what I'm doing. We're doing. We're doing this together, so shut up and enjoy it, okay?"

"Okay."

"Mmm, shit, Ima' leave teeth marks all over you."

"Yeah? Good."

"Such a girl."

Sam laughs, but for once he doesn't deny it, just wraps his arms around me, hands squeezing and kneading the muscles on my back and it feels so incredible I moan out loud. Sam's body is hot and hard against me, the beating of his heart right under my mouth does really good things to my insides. I want to stay here forever. I hear myself groan his name, "Sam," and I know he knows what I mean, because his hands go all gentle, stroking up and down my back.

"Yeah, Dean, me too." He whispers back, and he sounds as happy as I feel.

"Pants. Get 'em off." I order, growling over his chest.

Sam gets his off in about two seconds, and I roll onto my back again and lift my hips up to help him with mine. He's kneeling next to me, eyes squinted up, a pink blush spread over the top half of his chest, where I was chewing on him, the places where my mouth marked him a darker red. His hair falls into his eyes, tickles my skin when he leans over me.

"You're beautiful," he whispers in my ear and I'm too far gone to give him shit for it. He's leaning over me, his breath coming fast and his voice is wrecked when he asks me, "What should I do? What do you want?" Sam's big hand strokes down my chest, over my stomach, wraps lightly around my hard-on, giving a little pull. "This?"

"Mmmff... fuck. Bring your mouth back here. Want some more."

" 'Sgood, Dean, so good." Sam tries to keep talking, but I dive right into his mouth and fuck it with my tongue until all he can do is moan.

"You got any idea how hard it's gonna be not to do this every single time I wanna make you shut up from now on? I'm gonna think about it all the time."

"Dean, don't... don't make any long term plans right now, okay?"

"Whatever. I know what I'm doing."

Sam laughs self-consciously, his body shifting restlessly beside me. "I don't."

"Oh, that's perfectly fine," I growl at him, rolling up onto my side and hooking one leg over his to pull him in tight against me. Sam's not a girl, so I'm not going to tell him how hot he is, or that his squirming-virgin thing is driving me outta my mind and I want to eat him alive.

His body is so huge when he rolls on top, drapes himself carefully over me, he covers me completely, like a blanket. Like he can shelter me or hide me from the badness of what we're doing. His eyes meet mine and the fog in my brain clears for a minute when I see, scared and 'Oh my god, Dean' in his eyes.

"Sam. You don't have to do anything if you don't want to--"

"I've always wanted to! Don't try and tell me you don't know that. Don't even try and tell me you don't know that every person I've ever been with has been a substitute. It's always been you!"

His eyes are fierce and wet. I watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows hard, shaking his head no like he's telling himself to shut the fuck up before he says too much, but it's too late, already.

"Hey. It's okay. I know, so c'mere."

I reach up with my one good arm and pull him down, push his face down to my shoulder so I can whisper in his ear. "You know what? I'ma let you fuck me. 'Sgonna be so good, man."

I feel his body shudder responding to my voice and Sam groans, falls down on my chest like a succubus. I watch him, taking so much pleasure in his closed eyes, the way his eyelashes lay damp against his skin, the way the crease in his forehead disappears when he rubs his face lightly against my chest. He's being really careful not to hurt me, holding all his weight off me with his arms, just letting his body brush against me, every point of contact a soft stroke of warm skin. It feels really nice, but I want him to relax, to lie down on me and let our bodies meld together.

"Come on, relax. I'm not gonna break." I tighten my one good arm around him, try to pull him down on me.

"No, your shoulder. I don't wanna hurt you any more."

"Sonofabitch Sammy. It wasn't your fault. It's okay. I want you. Real bad. So relax, man, move with me." I push my hips up, thrust against him and the friction and the smooth skin of his cock rubbing against mine feels better than anything I can remember. He catches my rhythm, rocks back and then forward, dragging against me hard, and I get such a rush of feeling, watching the way his eyes shut and his mouth opens, a look of pure ecstasy spreading over his face.

"There we go, you got it. Shit you feel good. Oh fuck, Sam. Oh God, Sammy, goddamn right there right there."

I can't help myself, can't stop the begging, moaning filth pouring out of my mouth, which is kinda crazy, because usually I'm real quiet, barely say a word, never a name. Sam punctuates my rambling with sharp snapping thrusts of his pelvis, our cocks lined up perfectly, almost exactly the same.

I push my forehead against his shoulder and crane my head down to look at us and I'm mesmerized. Our cocks are almost identical, maybe he's got a full inch on me, which stands to reason, him being gargantuan and all, but they look exactly alike. Same big mushroom head and deep cut, tiny hole, same bright pink blush at the spot underneath, same dark vein and soft, sparse hair. I've seen plenty of dicks, and ours are nice.

"Voyeur?" Sam stutters in my ear, dark amusement and interest in his harsh whisper.

"Us. We're hot."

"Yeah. You are, anyways. Wanna fuck you so bad. Wanna fuck you. How, how do I make it fit?"

"Seriously? You've never had ass sex?"

"No."

"Oh. Well, lube. We need lube."

"Okay."

"My bag. Inside zipper pocket."

"Too far."

"Sam. Go now."

"Okay, don't move."

He says it like he thinks I'm going to disappear.

~-~

I come so hard I actually black our for a minute. When I come back to planet earth Deans arms and legs are wrapped around me tightly, holding me deep inside of him. His face is pressed into my neck and I lift my head up so I don't smother him. His face is all wet, and oh my god, those are tears rolling down his cheeks.

"Dean?" My voice cracks, rough as the stubble of his beard dragging against my shoulder when he tries to wipe his face on me.

"I'm okay."

"Dean." I pull out of him slowly, watching his face, open and naked, big, fat tears dropping down his cheeks to pool on his neck.

"Intense... just. I'm sorry, Sam."

"Shut the fuck up."

I roll us to his good side, wrap my arms around him and pull him in tight against me, feel his chest heave and the coughing sob that comes up even though he fights it, hard.

"It's okay. It's just okay. Let it go."

He nods, can't talk without letting more of it out, so he pushes his face hard into my collar bone and cries silently. I put my hand up high on the back of his neck and rub gently. Finally his breathing evens out, quiets down, and I feel the softness of his mouth, tentative, at the side of my neck.

"It's okay." I whisper again, because I can't think of anything else to say.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Run and tell all of the angels
> 
> This could take all night
> 
> Think I need a devil to help me get things right
> 
> Hook me up a new revolution
> 
> Cause this one is a lie
> 
> We sat around laughing and watched the last one die
> 
> And I'm looking to the sky to save me
> 
> Looking for a sign of life
> 
> Looking for something to help me burn out bright
> 
> I'm looking for a complication
> 
> Looking cause I'm tired of lying
> 
> Make my way back home when I learn to fly
> 
> I think I'm done nursing patience
> 
> It couldn't wait one night
> 
> I'd give it all away if you give me one last try
> 
> We'll live happily ever trapped if you just save my life
> 
> Run and tell the angels that everything is alright...
> 
> Fly along with me, I can't quite make it alone
> 
> Try to make this life my own


End file.
